Introductions: Bradley Johnston
by Botosphere
Summary: A British machinist from the Royal Air Force applies for a position with NEST. Little does he know what he's getting into... Chapter 2 is now up, and Johnston is given an education on Americans and aliens.
1. Chapter 1

I stood at attention in the hallway, eyes fixed on the wall opposite, waiting for my name to be called. On the outside, I was a machine, a soldier awaiting orders. Inside, I was a mixed-up bundle of nerves.

It was an honor just to be here. My CO had called me into his office last month saying that a multinational special-ops unit based out of Diego Garcia needed a machinist and was scouting every branch of both the British and US militaries for the very best. Most of the leadership on Diego Garcia were American cowboys, and our brass wanted to make a better showing. Though he hated to lose me, my CO was submitting my name. I understood, in a general sense, what my competition for this position would be. No doubt dozens of specialists in metallurgy and mechanical engineering had stood in this exact same spot, hoping for the same things I was.

To make it this far, I'd had to pass four different exams, perform lab tests on some alloys I didn't think were even possible, and submit a written report of the tests. Apparently I'd made the cut, because they'd flown me all the way out here for the next barrage of exams. And I'd had to sign my life away in non-disclosure agreements.

"Sergeant Bradley Johnston."

I didn't even twitch at the sound of my name spoken in the harsh twang, but the butterflies in my stomach went wild.

An American soldier strode into my line of sight and I saluted. He returned it. "At ease. I'm Major William Lennox, and I'll be overseeing your practicum today. Come with me."

Then the Major scanned a security card and opened the door beside me. Before he stepped through, though, he paused and said, "Everything in this room is classified. You were never here. Understood?"

"Perfectly, sir."

I followed him through the door into a large repair shop. A Search and Rescue vehicle was incongruously parked in the far corner amidst shelves upon shelves of parts, tools, and various workbenches. Two huge, sturdy-looking platforms were anchored to the wall eight feet off the ground to my right, and on the wall opposite me was a door that had to be at least forty feet tall. What in the world did they work on in this shop? My answer was lying on a table in the middle of the floor – an enormous robot. Was this…? It couldn't be. Could it? Was I looking at one of the experimental robots that rampaged through Mission City last year? My hands itched in anticipation at the thought of working on it.

As we walked closer, a man in a working jumpsuit straightened from the table, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Welcome, Major," he said, his eyes still glaring at the machine in front of him. I couldn't place his accent – it was more American than anything, but it wasn't quite right. More refined? He was a little over medium height, but with broad, burly shoulders and a nametag stitched onto his jumpsuit that read "R. Hatchett." Considering the monster in front of him, I could see why he was so solidly built. His work must require a lot of heavy lifting.

"Got the latest candidate for you, Hatchett," his commanding officer said.

The man finally tore his eyes away from the project in front of him and looked me up and down. "I hope you do better than the last one."

"I shall, sir," I said confidently.

Hatchett tipped his head, his piercing blue eyes hard. "A bit arrogant, aren't we? And why do you say that?"

"Because I am the best. Sir."

He chuckled wryly. "I've met The Best, Johnston, and you aren't him. But we'll see if you'll do. Come here."

Closer to the monster robot? With pleasure, I thought, approaching the machinist and his project.

He gestured toward the jumble of wires and fractured metal in front of him. "What do you make of this?"

"It's a mess, sir."

He snorted.

"I'm not an electrical engineer," I pointed out, suddenly wondering if there was some sort of mix up.

"I know that," Hatchett snapped. Definitely an American. "But you'll need cross-training in several related disciplines if you're going to be working here. Starting now. How do we get this shoulder fixed?"

"Do we have any schematics available?" I asked.

"No," Hatchett grunted, "though I've got a working familiarity with every bucket of rust that comes through that door. I'm going to be your best resource."

I nodded thoughtfully. This was like nothing I'd ever seen before – there was no color-coding on the wiring, various fluids were gumming the whole thing up, and it was obvious from the structural damage that the frame and protective plating had taken a real punishing.

"What do you recommend, sir?" I asked the machinist.

"This is _your_ test. Why are you asking me?"

I frowned and glanced at him. "Because you are my best resource."

"Well, at least this one's not dense," Hatchett said to Major Lennox. Then to me, he said, "I'm not going to have time to walk you through every little circuit, but I will tell you this. This robot, like a human, is bilateral. When it was functional, this shoulder was an exact mirror-image of the other."

"Understood," I answered, immediately walking around the head of the table to the other side. "Protective gear?" I belatedly asked. A section of the paper exam I took this morning had a few questions about safety procedures, so I decided I'd best go by the book.

Hatchett grunted in what might be approval and pointed to a free-standing cabinet. "Over there."

I retrieved safety goggles and welders' gloves and then hesitated. I was in a dress uniform. "Jumpsuits?"

"I don't have time for you to worry about looking pretty. Get your aft over here."

Aft? Must be an Americanism I hadn't heard before, I decided, hurrying back over to the table. Hatchett was setting out a few tools for me, while Lennox took notes on a clipboard. I picked up one of the tools, realizing I hadn't the slightest idea what it was or what it was supposed to do. It looked vaguely like an oversized laser-pointer.

Hatchett snatched it out of my hands when I tried to look at the light bulb end of the tool. "Careful with that. It's a laser scalpel."

"Laser scalpel?"

"Classified," Lennox answered without looking up from his clipboard.

"Since you haven't been trained on how to use it, I'll open the armor seam and you can take it from there."

Despite saying he didn't have time to help me, Hatchett walked me through most of the exercise, from opening the shoulder to diagramming the wiring and tubing to riveting the shoulder shut again.

We returned to the damaged shoulder, and I immediately set to work. Hatchett stayed back this time, allowing me to splice the wiring and weld the tubing back to together. I was shocked that the pipe was both solid metal and flexible. How in the world had they managed _that_? At first, I'd wanted this position for honor – for Queen and country – but now I wanted it for the work itself. Handling metal marvels all day? I felt like I'd died and gone to heaven.

Hatchett handed me a tool. Looking down, I asked, "Isn't this the laser scalpel?"

"Well done. Yes. Don't point it at your head; be grateful points were all you lost in that stunt. I've adjusted the setting so it welds now instead of slices. Try it out."

"But I haven't been trained on how to use it, sir."

"Yes you have."

"How do I turn it on, sir?"

Hatchet blinked and Lennox coughed, obviously hiding a laugh.

"Oh slag it already. Here, use one hand to steady the scalpel and the other hand to adjust the intensity of the beam." Pointing the tool at a jagged edge of the armor plating, he pushed what looked like a typical torch's on/off switch, but the switch slid all the way from the bottom of the scalpel to the rim of the lens. An orange pinpoint of light grew into a beam and then finally a blistering ray of white light. "Too hot," Hatchet casually continued, "and the weld will be weak. Too cool, and it will be brittle. You'll get the feel of it over time. Right now I just want to see how steady your hand is."

Then he switched the laser off and stepped back, intently watching me with crossed arms.

No pressure. I sighed and turned my back on him. Picking up a piece of armor fragment, I lined it up against the plating still mounted to the robot, making sure I had the right piece before I heated the metal. I tried the orange-light end of the spectrum, but after a few seconds nothing happened. I pushed it up to the white-light end, and the metal started bubbling after less than two seconds. Right, then, something in the middle. Tracing the rim of the broken shoulder-armor with medium intensity, I heated the armor enough that the fragment would probably stay in place.

"I presume that there's no solder you want me to use?" I asked, pretty sure Hatchett would have said something sooner if there was.

"You assumed correctly."

Then I needed to heat both pieces of the metal to the brink of melting point, wedge them together, and then repeat the process until there was a continuous joint. As I worked, I asked, "Will we be putting strapping or some other support on the back to reinforce the seam?"

"No need. We have other methods of restoring strength to the seam, once the metal is in place."

"Classified methods," Lennox unnecessarily added.

I worked in silence, then, until Hatchett said, "Good enough. Place the scalpel on the berth and come take a look at this."

Setting it down as instructed, I took a step toward him and stopped. "Is there a safety on the scalpel?"

"A safety?"

"Yes, some sort of mechanism to prevent it from accidentally turning on."

He gave me a look of grudging respect. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I'll take care of it, though."

Major Lennox handed me his clipboard as Hatchett fiddled with the laser scalpel, though his back was to me and I couldn't see what he did. "This is a printout summary of the damage to the robot."

I let out a low whistle as I read over the page.

"Here's our problem," he continued. "We don't own this monster here. And the people that do own it want it back. Wanted it back yesterday, as a matter of fact."

"And intact," Hatchett added, glowering at the major. "Or as intact as it came to us."

"But we can't pass up this opportunity," Lennox shot back, and I had a feeling they'd had a couple of heated discussions about this already. "Johnston, you said you're the best. Are you good enough to strip this thing of the most interesting bits and swap something out in its place?"

I took a deep breath. "With all due respect, sir, whoever built this thing would know immediately if we tampered with it. In fact, we probably shouldn't have done today's repairs. This is extremely advanced technology all the way around, and nothing that we have available will make a believable substitute. I recommend that we give them the robot back intact and negotiate for the information we can't obtain on an external examination. Sir."

Lennox sneered at me. "I didn't ask for your opinion, soldier. I asked if you were up to the task."

My stomach plummeted, but I snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Johnston, I'm ordering you to…"

"Belay that," Hatchett gruffly said. Turning to Lennox, he continued, "You left your authority at the door. This is _my_ repair bay, and Johnston will do as _I_ say."

"Do it, Johnston," Lennox ordered, still glaring down Hatchett.

I looked from one to the other, completely at a loss. I couldn't disobey a direct order, unless… "If I may, Mr. Hatchett, what is your rank?"

He didn't move a muscle, but I had the sense that my question surprised him. "Major," he snapped back.

No help there. I was probably shooting myself in the foot, but I took a step closer to the machinist and turned to face Lennox. "I will not, sir. As he said, this is Major Hatchett's jurisdiction and if I am working on this robot I am answerable to him." Besides, he was the one making the smart choice. The right choice.

Lennox narrowed his eyes at me. "I'm sorry to hear you say that. Come with me." He turned on his heel and strode toward the exit.

Hatchett chuckled. "No, actually, don't. Stay here, Johnston. I have a few more things to show you."

I hesitated, torn, and Lennox whirled on Hatchett. "We've done this song and dance twenty-seven times. _Twenty-seven! _Do you mean to tell me you've _finally_ found someone satisfactory?"

"I am telling you precisely that," Hatchett answered, grinning.

Lennox whacked himself in the forehead with the clipboard. "Hallelujah! Now to fill the other two positions."

I looked from one to the other in utter confusion, and Lennox chuckled.

"Welcome aboard, Bradley Johnston," Hatchett formally said, throwing an almost indulgent little smile at Major Lennox. "You'll have to forgive our methods, but the test was less one of skill and more one of character. You are the first person to ask my rank, and the first one to side with me. Both were the correct choice, though I admit the first was something of a surprise. Shall I initiate him on the spot?" he asked of Lennox.

"Me first." Coming to stand in front of me, Lennox saluted and said, "Welcome to the team. Upon final approval, you will become an official member of NEST operating under the authority and jurisdiction of Ratchet."

The term 'NEST' I recognized from several seals I'd seen since arriving here. They were the stuffy chaps with "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" as their slightly unnerving rallying cry. I had no idea what Ratchet was, though.

Turning to Hatchett, Lennox said, "Take it away, Ratch."

The machinist looked a little exasperated and…nervous. "Mr. Johnston, I confess that I am not, in fact, a major in the US Army."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise

"I am, however, a member of the NEST team, operating in the Autobot division in the capacity of chief medical officer."

"Medical officer," I repeated, baffled.

"Whatcha waiting for?" Lennox said, almost sounding like he was ribbing Hatchett.

The machinist/medical officer took a deep breath. "Just…do not be alarmed."

"Yeah, right," Lennox sniggered.

Then Hatchett flickered out of existence. I blinked stupidly, but before I could react more than that, the Search and Rescue vehicle began to _move_. Not driving, but disintegrating, reshaping itself into a new form. I skittered back to hover behind Lennox, who was standing at ease. The metal frame stretched and twisted until something vaguely human-shaped stood before me. A monster robot, I realized, an icy thrill shooting down my spine. I had the presence of mind not to soil myself or shout "Bloody hell," but given Major Lennox's smirk, I must have given some sign of mild alarm.

"You know," Major Lennox drawled, "the twins dared me to run around in circles and scream in a panic when you transformed for the new recruit."

The robot looked down at him. "I'm pleased to see that, for once, you're more mature than they are." Turning to me, the robot said, "I am Ratchet, the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer. There are several of us Autobots here on Earth working in concert with a select team of humans. Together, we form NEST. Our purpose is to prevent our ancient enemies, the Decepticons," he glowered at the inert form on the table as he spat the word, "from harming the inhabitants of this planet. Major Lennox and his Special Forces team were the first humans to work jointly with us. One of their number, James Quinn, has been assisting me, and I found him to be surprisingly helpful. Therefore, I am compiling a team of human counterparts to work with me in repairing my damaged Autobot comrades."

He paused for a long moment, and I realized he was waiting for me to say something. "And I'm being invited to join your team?"

"Yes." He nodded to Major Lennox. "And for the record, he and I get along much better than we have led you to believe."

"Usually," Lennox added with a grin. Then he sobered. "You, Quinn, and the rest of the repair team will be in an unusually difficult position. The Autobots do not share their technology with us, and the NEST leadership understands and accepts that decision, but there are politicians and higher-ranking brass in both our militaries that disagree. We're not making it widely known that you'll be tinkering with Autobots, but I'm telling you now that your first allegiance is to NEST. Some of the weaponry and other systems you'll work with would be disastrous in the wrong hands, and the only right hands are the Autobots'. Understood?"

"Perfectly, sir," I answered, suddenly understanding why they'd set up their test the way they did. I had no doubt that, if I was part of this team, eventually someone would take the role Lennox was playing and try to pressure me into divulging information about these robots' technology.

"Do you have any questions for us?" Ratchet asked.

I breathlessly laughed. "Are you real?"

Ratchet snorted – sounding just like Hatchett – and bending over, picked me up in the palm of his hand. Holding me up so we were eye-to-eye, he said, "You tell me."

His alien face filled my vision. I could feel his hard hand under mine – it was surprisingly warm – and even smell the metallic scent of oiled steel. "Yes, sir, you're real."

"Any others?"

Still feeling like my grasp on reality was tenuous at best, I asked, "How soon can I start?"

Ratchet looked to Lennox. "Will?"

"Unofficially, Johnston started an hour ago. At this point it's just paperwork. Go ahead and introduce him around, starting with Quinn. I'll go spread the good news that you _finally _picked somebody."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: To recap, Bradley Johnston is a minor OC from _Introductions: Annabelle_ who took on a life of his own. I apologize it's taken so long to finish this fic, but I hope you enjoy this final chapter. ~ Eowyn77

* * *

Once my feet were on solid ground again, Ratchet grasped a pulley-rope and opened the enormous rolling door. I stepped through the doorway into a fantasy world. A human with glasses and sandy-blond hair was standing on a step ladder repairing an orange-and-black robot. A green-and-black robot sat beside them.

Seeing us, the green one jumped to its feet and began gesturing wildly with one arm. The other hung loosely at his side. The human threw a wrench as long as my forearm at him, and wincing, the robot sat down again. "Ya move again and I'll turn off yur motor relays, fragger." His drawl was even more pronounced and twangy than Lennox's.

"You turned off their vocal processors?" Ratchet asked, sounding a touch impressed. "I don't recall training you on that."

"Arcee did it for me," the man answered, grunting a little as he tightened something down. "She'd had enough of the aftheads' glitching and volunteered her services on the way out to the proving grounds."

"What happened?"

"Brotherhood."

"Ah. Well, you seem to have everything well in hand." Ratchet turned, and I quickly shuffled out of his way.

The green robot threw himself across the distance, tackling Ratchet's foot. Something that looked suspiciously like tears gushed from his…optical hardware as he cowered, obviously pleading for mercy.

"Fine," Ratchet growled. "Just stop." Leaning down, the large Autobot tinkered with the little green one's 'neck' and a rush of words spilled from his mouth.

I had to listen closely to understand any of his gibberish, and even then, all I could make out was, "We's sorry, Ratchet! Don' let 'im repair us again!"

"Johnston," Ratchet said, gesturing toward the groveling robot, "This is Skids. He and his twin brother Mudflap there will be the bane of your existence."

The human straightened and, seeing me, hopped off the step ladder with a wide grin. "Hot damn! Reinforcements!" He offered me his hand, after wiping it off on a shop rag. "Quinn. Jimmy Quinn. I was a mechanic before Ratchet here drafted me. Yur Brad Johnston?"

I shook his hand. "Bradley, and yes."

"Pleased to meet ya. We were beginning to wonder if _anyone _would pass Ratchet's test."

The medic shrugged. "I was going to give you humans a hundred tries, but we stumbled upon Johnston here on our twenty-seventh. So perhaps three percent…"

"Naw, I think ya just lucked out," Quinn told him, returning to his work. I shadowed him, eager to see yet another Autobot up close.

Ratchet stepped over to the orange robot – Mudflap – and briefly touched his neck, too. The words that spilled out of his mouth were utterly undecipherable.

To my fellow human, I murmured, "What language is he speaking?"

Quinn snorted and answered, "English, kinda," at the same time Ratchet said, "None." I personally agreed with the Autobot; that was definitely not _my_ native tongue.

Above and behind me, the voice of God said, "Welcome, Bradley Johnston."

They all looked at the speaker, and I turned to see an enormous Autobot towering over me. He lowered himself to the ground, crouching on all fours to be eye-level with me.

"Remember when I said I'd met The Best?" Ratchet said as the giant knelt. "Well now you can say you've met him, too. Johnston, this is the Autobot leader, Optimus Prime."

Optimus meant 'best' in Latin. And Prime meant 'first.' First and best? Or best of the first? It had been more than fifteen years since my last Latin class.

"We are pleased to have you on our team," he said with authority and quiet thunder.

After a steadying breath, I answered, "Pleased to be here, sir."

"It is unnecessary to call me 'sir' as I am not your superior." A piece of his optic hardware moved, simulating a blink. It struck me as a remarkably human thing, one that was probably practiced. "I answer to both 'Optimus' and to simply 'Prime.' Some humans are more comfortable using 'sir,' though, and I will not take offense if you choose to."

Behind me, Quinn chuckled.

"What is your preference, sir?" I winced when I accidentally added that last word.

"Prime will do."

"Thank you, Prime. I hope to prove worthy of your trust soon."

"If you had not already proven yourself worthy, you would not be here now. I have no doubt your services will be welcome and appreciated."

He straightened again, and I watched with wonder.

"I've had my comm turned off," Ratchet said to Prime. "Where are the others?"

"Ironhide has them out on the proving grounds. He and Arcee are working with Sideswipe, trying to improve his covert ops attack. Skids and Mudflap were down there too until…"

"Yes. Brotherhood." Ratchet shook his head and then glanced down at me. "Let's take you over to the proving grounds, then. This will be an education for you."

"Don' leave us, Ratchet," the orange one, Mudflap, wailed latching on to his other foot while Skids grabbed the medic's foot closest to him again. "Da human's gonna _murder_ us!"

Ratchet theatrically sighed and then winked at Quinn. "Well done. Why don't you take a break from the twins and escort Johnston to the proving grounds? The three of us will catch up to you as soon as I have these glitches functional."

"Yes sir!" Quinn said enthusiastically.

"I was headed there myself," Prime rumbled. "I'll give you a lift." He collapsed down, shifting and reshaping into the incongruent form of a large red and blue lorry. Quinn lightly elbowed me, pulling me out of my slack-jawed awe, and opened the passenger door. Wait, the driver's door. Apparently Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, was in fact a 'truck' because his steering column was on the wrong side. God save us – the Autobots were Americans!

I slipped in on the passenger side, agog that any human being would have the audacity to sit behind Prime's wheel, but Quinn just leaned back and kept his hands to himself. The lorry began to move on his own.

"So," Quinn began after a moment's silence. "Ya probably got a million questions. There's a handbook for the new recruits that oughtta help ya out. Lennox will get that to ya today. In the meantime, though, feel free to ask me or Ratchet anything. Better to ask than make a mistake."

He said it like it was a motto, and considering the magnitude of what I would be dealing with, those could be words to live by. "And the proving grounds?"

Quinn's face lit up at the question and he gestured wildly while answering. "The proving grounds are _awesome_! Humans train there, Autobots train there, and they train together, too. Though it's always coolest when it's just the Autobots. They don't pull any punches then, let me tell ya. And Sideswipe…he's one of our most deadly 'bots, but he's also one of the newer ones to Earth. Isn't used to fighting while staying in his alt-form. Got us in trouble in South America a few weeks back, so they've been whipping him into shape."

"Alt-form?"

"Vehicle mode. Ya know. Ratchet's is a Search and Rescue Hummer, and now you've seen Prime's, too. Skids and Mudflap transform into a couple of little compacts. Sideswipe's is a Corvette, and Ironhide's is a monster pickup truck. Arcee's is the coolest. Her alt-form is three motorcycles."

"Her?" I exclaimed. "Three?"

The lorry's engine rumbled in what I belatedly realized was a chuckle, and a voice from the radio said, "Yes, her. We have genders as a matter of identity but not sexes. And the means by which she controls the three bikes is complicated enough to be classified."

"Meaning it's too advanced for us humans to know about," Quinn translated.

"Because we wouldn't comprehend it?"

Quinn snorted. "Because they know better than to hand a two-year-old a huntin' knife. I'll warn ya now, Johnston, working with the Autobots makes a body pretty cynical about the human race."

"I hope not," Prime said softly.

Quinn was instantly contrite. "Ya'all bring out the very best or the very worst in people, Optimus. It's nothing ya do personally; it's our own fault. I'm just amazed all the time at how many humans are idiots."

"Cybertron had its fair share of them, too," Optimus said, his voice somewhere between wistful and amused. "If it means Earth does not suffer the same fate, I'll happily suffer the idiots. My standard is sentience, not common sense."

Quinn half-smiled and then caught my confused expression. "Cybertron is their home-world. It was pretty much destroyed by war."

What does one say to _that_? Recovering slightly, I murmured, "My condolences, sir."

"Thank you," he solemnly answered.

We rode in silence the rest of the way to the proving grounds. Optimus opened his doors for us, and I quickly climbed out, watching in utter awe as he transformed again. Stunning!

"Ha! Take a look at that, Epps," a normal voice barked out. "You now owe me one hundred pounds! I'll take cash or cheque."

Searching for the speaker, I saw one of my fellow Brits standing on a high platform overlooking what I assumed was the proving grounds.

"Aw, slag!" the black American at his side exclaimed, although why he was invoking a whore as a swear-word was beyond me.

"Not what you think, lad," the Brit said to me with a smirk. Quinn started climbing the stairs to the platform, and I followed. "We're three different factions all trying to speak English and we lose a bit in translation. I'm Agent Graham," he greeted me when I reached the top of the platform.

"Yes, sir," I answered with a salute. "You're the ranking British officer on Diego Garcia."

He nodded in approval. "Good man." Gesturing toward the sprawling, battered complex before us, he said, "And just in time, too. Ironhide is putting everyone through their paces today, but especially Sideswipe."

"The silver one," Quinn clarified.

"Hell on wheels," the American officer added, appreciation in his voice. "Master Sergeant Robert Epps, by the way."

"Good to meet you, sir."

And then the pleasantries ended with a thunderous concussion as one of the concrete buildings imploded. A silver sports car snarled away from the falling debris, swerving as it went to dodge what looked like cannon blasts. A black lorry soon followed, cannons popping away from the front panels to fire and then retract.

"Ironhide," Quinn murmured. "Crazy glitch, but he can take hits that would kill even Prime."

"His body-guard," Graham added.

"When I let him," Prime rumbled behind us.

The silver auto took a corner too fast and spun out 180 degrees – or so I thought until it half-transformed to whip out bladed arms. The pursuing lorry drove right into the ambush, and the wicked-looking swords glinted in the sun as they left deep gashes across Ironhide's hood. The roar of his engine was deafening, but the silver auto was already gone, dodging the weapons fire again.

"Bloody hell," I muttered.

"Amen," Graham answered with a grin. Into a two-way radio, he ordered, "Arcee, into the breach."

"I don't need back-up," a male voice snarled in answer over the speaker.

"Insubordination, Sideswipe," Graham snapped. "You're on a team or off it."

"Silver psychopath," a female voice archly cut in. "I'm in." A trio of motorcycles sped through the broken buildings, agilely leaping over crumbled concrete and twisted rebar.

"Are you infants?" Graham grumbled. "Work together or I'll dispatch Prime to back-up Ironhide."

Another male voice snorted. "Let Prime back up the sparklings. I'll blast all three of them to pieces."

"And face Ratchet's wrath?" Quinn sniggered.

"Ironhide," Optimus said from behind me, "You team up with Sideswipe and Arcee. I'll be the target."

And even though I'd never heard his voice before today, his underlying thrill of a good fight was undeniable. In the brief moments I'd known him, I'd come to think of Optimus as a gentle giant. Apparently, I'd been mistaken.

The leader of the Autobots waded into the proving grounds. From somewhere in his arm, he unsheathed a lethal-looking blade that made Sideswipe's swords look like a child's toys. He moved with an almost predatory grace as he stepped over broken walls and swiveled his head, searching for his 'enemies.' A battle mask now covered his face.

"Somebody's gonna get their asses whupped," Epps crowed.

"Energon blades," Graham explained. I was unable to tear my eyes away from the towering, metallic avenging angel that was Optimus Prime. "His weapon of choice for hand-to-hand combat."

"Many Decepticons have met their deaths under those blades," a voice I recognized as Ratchet's said beside me. I hadn't even realized he'd arrived. "His ion blasters are more energy efficient, but the energon swords will cut through almost anything."

"So he is judicious in their use," I concluded.

"Unless somebody's royally pissed him off," Epps added, open admiration in his tone.

"Unless someone needs a lesson," Ratchet corrected. "Ironhide trained Sideswipe, so our melee warrior has great respect for 'Hide, but he has yet to fully integrate into our team. Optimus will be a formidable enough opponent that they will _have _to work together."

Optimus leaped forward, crushing another cement structure, and the scaffolding under our feet shuddered with the impact. Three motorcycles scattered away from him and several blasts from Ironhide provided cover-fire for Arcee before the black lorry swerved down a side-path.

As if this were purely academic, Ratchet continued. "The energon blades are a significant drain on his energy reserves, however. Remember that, Johnston. If he's been using them, he'll need more power quickly. As soon as he can safely fuel up without someone taking a shot at him, make him. Don't let him try to brush you off."

Optimus reached to his shoulder – which was _transforming itself _– and retrieved a ranged-weapon. What had Ratchet called it? An ion blaster? He took several shots at his retreating opponents but still kept one of his energon swords at the ready - the very image of an invincible foe.

"With all due respect, sir, how am I to _make _Optimus Prime do anything?"

Ratchet snorted. "You'll learn. Starting tomorrow. For today, just enjoy the show."

I watched, entranced, as Optimus kicked aside a slab of concrete and brought his sword down with a shower of sparks and molten stone on a target I couldn't see. "Those blades will cut through _almost_ anything, sir?"

"Yes," Ratchet answered. "And you don't have to call me sir, either."

"What won't they cut through?"

I could hear the amusement in his voice. "Cybertronium."

Sideswipe, pinned down now, leaped forward to attack the being twice his size. He lifted one arm, blocking Optimus' energon sword with his own, and twisted away, trying to squeeze past Optimus. As impressive as Optimus' energon sword was, the Cybertronium had me most intrigued. What metal could handle that kind of abuse and still be malleable enough to work?

Had Sideswipe been alone, it would have been hopeless, but Arcee came out of nowhere, her three bikes transforming on the fly to swarm Optimus. Her weapons fire didn't look particularly intense, but apparently she was a fine shot. The leader of the Autobots broke off his attack on Sideswipe so he could turn his ion blaster on the female. Again she scattered, and I realized she would be virtually impossible to take down in a fight if you had to destroy all three bikes to kill her. As long as she could catch her prey and had enough stamina, she'd be able to successfully battle targets much larger and stronger than herself, though clearly not Optimus.

Ironhide joined the fray just then, while Optimus was distracted by Arcee, and landed several solid hits with his cannons. Beside me, Ratchet wearily sighed. Sideswipe finally made it back out into the open and again attempted to engage Optimus. But the enormous…creature landed a shot from his ion blaster directly on the silver auto, throwing him to the ground.

"Call a time-out, Graham," Ratchet requested. "They got too enthusiastic again."

"Well if yur stupid enough to make a frontal attack on Prime like that, ya deserve whatever ya get," Quinn groused while Graham ordered a halt to the training exercise.

"Melee warriors," Epps said, apparently in Sideswipe's defense. "Not the sharpest crayons in the box, but they've saved our sorry afts several times."

Optimus helped Sideswipe to his feet, or rather, wheels, and the two of them gingerly made their way toward the observation platform and toward Ratchet, who was standing beside it. Prime didn't return the ion blaster to his shoulder, and I was uncertain if that was because he was still on his guard or if he had forgotten it was in his hand. Ironhide and Arcee were apparently unharmed, and they followed, talking casually. The female had combined all three bikes into one larger robot and I shook my head in amazement.

"Anybody else want to play?" Ironhide asked when they were close enough to converse with us.

"Not unless you want me to pull Skids and Mudflap out of recharge," Ratchet said, his hand transforming into some tool or another as he approached Optimus and Sideswipe.

The black lorry looked to Graham, a sort of wicked relish in his voice and expression. "Do it."

"Count me in," Sideswipe grunted as Ratchet began working on him.

"See this, Johnston?" Ratchet said, thumping the silver auto on the head. "This one is insane."

"And he carries knives," I dryly pointed out.

Quinn burst out in raucous laughter, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Graham shake his head ever so slightly. An Englishman would have to be drunk to be making that much noise.

"Optimus is marginally saner," Ratchet continued. "You and Quinn treat him."

"Me, sir?" I squeaked, but Quinn just gestured me forward, randomly chuckling from time to time.

Optimus moved closer, kneeling beside the observation platform, and I could see metal shifting under damaged plating. Just like the monster Ratchet used in his test, I realized.

As he approached Optimus, Quinn settled down a little though he still was grinning from ear to ear. "Damage?"

"Minor. My systems can handle repairs; however, a sliver of armor got wedged in…" Prime leaned closer, turning slightly so that the damaged plating was closer to the mechanic.

"I see it," Quinn said thoughtfully, pulling a pair of work gloves from his utility belt and putting them on. He climbed up onto the railing that circled the observation platform, looping one leg over the top bar and standing on the lower one. Leaning against Optimus' body, he stuck his arm into the…the wound all the way up to his shoulder. "Got it in your blaster transformation gears, didncha."

"Affirmative."

"Slippery piece of scrap, ain't it." My fellow human hopped down from his precarious perch and dug into a pocket, retrieving a multi-function tool.

"That's your first lesson, Johnston," Ratchet said, nodding toward Quinn. "Carry one of those and a pair of gloves on your person at all times." Under his breath, he added, "You never know when stupidity will strike."

Remembering me, Quinn turned and offered me the tool, which he had configured into a pair of pliers. "Wanna do the honors?"

I stared slack-jawed for a moment before stuttering, "I wouldn't know where to begin."

"Aw, come on, ya can handle it," he encouraged, pulling off his gloves and shoving them into my hands along with the tool. "Ya really gonna pass this up?"

The look he gave me then was that of a kindred spirit, mechanic to machinist. Metal was our medium, and for the likes of us the hum of a well-built engine is a symphony. But I'd never heard an engine like Optimus' or Sideswipe's, as different from an Earth-made machine as birdsong is from a human voice. Quinn must have known, as I did, that these Autobots were not mere robots. Better than most of our fellow humans, we who crafted and maintained machines knew these creatures were as complex and _alive _as they were alien. With that look from Quinn, I immediately knew he and I would get along, and get along well, despite whatever cultural differences separated us.

I nodded and handed off the gloves to him long enough for me to remove my dress-uniform jacket. Rolling up my sleeves, I pulled on the gloves and accepted the tool. "Right, then. Lead on."

Quinn leaned over the railing again, bellowing, "Hey Arcee, a little light here?"

She again broke into all three components, and the pink one vaulted up onto the platform. Transforming back to her alt-mode, she turned on her headlamp, angling it up so it illuminated Optimus' wound. As I hesitantly scaled the safety railing, she said, "I don't see any stops for you, Johnston, so go ahead."

"'Stop' meaning 'if ya'all are stupid enough to touch that, Ratchet's gonna slag ya.' Oh, and Arcee's a field medic, so she's another good one to ask if ya got a question."

"A stop is usually something like exposed neural wiring or pooling energon," pink-Arcee elaborated. "But there's nothing like that here. This repair is basically a glorified sliver removal."

Feeling slightly better, I balanced on the safety railing, placing a hand on Optimus to steady myself, and vividly remembered him slicing through concrete and blasting Sideswipe. "Perhaps an anesthetic is in order?" I ventured.

"Unnecessary," Optimus rumbled. "I've disabled the pain sensors in the area."

"Understood."

As Quinn promised, this particular repair was something I _could _handle, despite it being my first day on the team. A piece of brilliant blue armor about half a meter long and maybe ten centimeters wide was lodged into a set of gears. With the pliers, I worked it loose in a matter of seconds and hopped down, triumphant.

Optimus stretched to his full height and returned the blaster to its…holster on his back. He moved slowly, no doubt testing for pain or damage, but apparently found none. Gravely, he said, "Thank you, Bradley Johnston."

My heart swelled with a surprisingly fierce happiness, and I realized that the gratitude of this awe-inspiring being was like a drug. For his praise, I would master any task Ratchet set before me and perform any service. "You're welcome, sir – Prime."

He nodded, a slight smile lifting his face plates, and he moved on to consult with Ratchet about Sideswipe, but _my_ life was changed forever.


End file.
